


Eros, Philia, and Agape

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, M/M, Philosophy, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-06-13 02:16:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15354009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: Timmy has an easy schedule lined up. He should be able to fly through his senior year, but the teacher in his Classical Philosophy class isn't who he expected.





	1. Chapter 1

“Good morning, class. I’m Mister Hammer.”

Timmy heard the last of it as he walked through the door, and he was sure he felt Hammer’s eyes on him as he strolled to the back of the room and slumped into a desk in the far corner. Normally, Timmy would get a scolding or at least a dirty look walking in late on the first day. Hammer, though, went on as if nothing had happened and handed a stack of papers to a student at the opposite corner, gesturing for him to pass it around.

“If you’re not here for Intro to Classical Philosophy, you’re in the wrong class. So”—he clapped his hands and rubbed them together—“let’s put some names to faces.”

 

As Hammer rounded the desk, Timmy rapped his knuckles against the elbow of the guy next to him. “Hey. What’s with the new guy?”

The guy shrugged. “I dunno. He’s new.”

He repeated the gesture to the guy in front with much the same outcome.

Timmy pffted. Really? Nobody knew this guy’s story? He didn’t exactly blend in. Timmy was already taller than most of his classmates, but this new guy dwarfed him. Not to mention the blond hair, blue eyes, and fucking tan. He had a fucking tan. Timmy could see the tan line just above the not-quite-crisp-enough collar and tie that was a little too loose around Hammer’s neck. He looked like he belonged on a California beach, not a secluded New England prep school.

If Timmy had known there’d be a new teacher for this class, he never would have registered for it. It was supposed to be taught by a guy who’d been here almost forty years, so close to retirement that he didn’t pay much mind to misbehavior or late assignments. It seemed a good place for Timmy to bide his time until his eighteenth birthday, but now here was this monolith, reading the attendance sheet with an “I will arbitrarily throw one of you out just to show my authority” attitude.

He didn’t seem too old, probably his first teaching job, and Timmy bet he thought he’d hit the jackpot getting it at a secluded boarding school for rich kids. _Just wait until the boredom sets in._ _Just wait until I get to you._

“Chalamet.” Hammer said it like he’d already had to repeat it a couple times. “Timothy Chalamet.”

“Timothée,” he corrected to the French pronunciation.

Hammer repeated it back. It was close enough, but Timmy corrected him again.

“Timo— I’ll just call you Tim.”

Timmy scoffed, but with a meaningful—and mean—look, Hammer moved on to the next name on the list.

Interesting. That wasn’t how things usually went down either. Hammer’s temper flared, but he didn’t engage. And Timmy, much to his own chagrin, actually felt a little chastened. He could feel his face heating. His heart made a little flip flop in the direction of his throat, not a leap by any means, but still a startling bit of upward motion. If he had a tail, it might even be tucked between his legs. That wasn’t right. He hadn’t felt intimidated by a teacher since third-grade dodgeball.

He scoffed again, quieter, more to himself, though it wasn’t out of any fear of that look. He needed to think. He needed to figure out how to restore the balance of power. Too bad there were only a few weeks before Timmy turned eighteen and got the hell out of here. He had his work cut out for him.

***

Tim loitered at the back of the pack as students filtered out at the end of class. He was never too keen to get to his next class, but he had a little extra incentive today in the form of one Armand Hammer and the mystery of the blushing face. 

Just before he walked out the door, Hammer spoke.

“Tim. Stay back for a sec.”

Timmy spun on one heel, groaning at the inconvenience before plastering on a limpid smile. “Yes, Mr. Hammer?”

Hammer shot him a look that made it quite clear that he thought he could see right through Timmy. “I don’t care who you think you are outside this class. You’re coming here prepared, and you’re participating like a human being.”

“That seems a bit premature.” Timmy stuck his hands in his pockets, upper body twisting from side to side. “I mean, all we did today was go over the syllab--”

“I mean it, kid.”

Timmy’s brows popped up. “Oh Captain, my Captain.”

“Very funny,” Hammer flatlined.

Timmy shrugged. “I try.”

“Bottom line—“

“You’ve been warned about me.”

“Yes, and you’ll behave in my class, or you’ll be spending every Saturday with me. Are we clear?”

Just the opening Timmy needed to restore his status quo. He grinned, bottom lip bitten between his teeth. Hammer wanted to play this game? Fine. Challenge ac-fucking-cepted.

He gave a left-handed salute with his first two fingers. “I guess I’ll see you Saturday, then.”

Timmy left. He didn’t see it happen, but he could feel Hammer’s face fall.


	2. Chapter 2

Timmy was late to Hammer’s office on Saturday morning and not just because he wanted to ruffle Hammer’s feathers. He couldn’t find the damn thing. Hammer had told him how to get there, and Timmy had rolled his eyes, thinking he was being given dead simple instructions. Most of the offices were grouped together on the second floor of the administration building, but now he was wandering the surprisingly labyrinthine basement like he was on the search for the Ark of the Covenant.

Finally, he spotted Hammer standing in the hallway, wearing khaki cargo shorts and a blue t-shirt. It was bizarre, like seeing your pediatrician at a strip club.

“Only ten minutes late,” Hammer said, holding open the office door. “I’m impressed.”

Timmy fought the urge to flip him off as he walked into the office. It was sparse in there, just a couple of posters tacked to the concrete walls, no papers piled on his desk, the bookshelf carefully organized with every book upright, and even though it was barely September, it would have been cold if not for the space heater whirring under the desk.

“And dressed to work, too. This must be my lucky day.” He gestured to Timmy’s track pants as he followed, letting to door fall closed behind him.

Timmy flopped into a chair facing Hammer’s desk, propping his feet on the edge to push the front two legs of the chair off the ground. There wasn’t much room to do it, though. His back hit the wall before his legs could get straight.

“Shoulda used your luck to pick a better office. Why aren’t you upstairs with everybody else?”

Hammer chuckled once as he slid between the wall and his desk, turning his back to Timmy to grab something from the bookshelf behind his desk chair. He spun around with a book in hand, leaning over the desk to knock Timmy’s feet off the edge.

Timmy let the front legs of the chair fall with a bang.

“Too few offices. Too many teachers. New guy.” Hammer tossed the book across. “At least it’s quiet.”

Timmy caught the book. “Private.”

Hammer hummed his absent agreement as he sat at the desk across from Timmy. “Start reading. Out loud.”

Timmy turned the book over in his hands. Plato. _The Republic._ Really? This was his punishment? To read? “From the beginning?”

“Book seven.”

Timmy flipped to it. Allegory of the cave. They were supposed to start on this next week, and Timmy had already read it last year. Boring.

He pouted. “I can’t read.”

He kept his head hanging low, the picture of shame and regret. Any moment, Hammer would stutter some apology, lament that a kid could fall through the cracks even at a school this prestigious, resolve to take Timmy under his wing.

Instead, when Timmy peeked, Hammer was staring, stone faced. “Cut the crap, kid.”

Timmy let his jaw drop. “I mean it, I—“

“I’ve seen your PSAT scores. Seven-eighty in critical reading. Pretty impressive.”

Timmy shrugged, his mouth twisting.

Hammer mirrored the gesture. “Grades don’t match up, though.”

“Wow.” Timmy rolled his eyes. “I’ve never heard that before.”

“Oh, I know. Start reading.”

Of all the dumbass discipline. He’d expected to organize files or sweep the halls or scrub pots in the kitchen or just listen to a lecture about how he wasn’t living up to his potential. Not to read out loud in a rickety old chair.

“Can I have a glass of water?” Timmy asked with a frog in his throat.

Hammer had already started work on his computer, but he reached under his desk, tossed a cold bottle of water Timmy’s way, then shuffled his chair back in place.

Timmy removed the cap and took a small sip. “Got a better chair?”

“The next words out of your mouth had better be from that book.”

“To be fair, most of the words I’ve said probably appear in th—“

Hammer shot him a none-too-pleased look.

“Geez. Fine.” He flipped to Book VII. “And now, I said, let me show in a figure how far our nature is enlightened or unenlightened…”

Timmy read aloud as Hammer went to work on something on his computer. It mustn’t have been anything too important because about ten minutes in, when Timmy tried reciting rap lyrics instead of reading, Hammer caught on by the second line. He tried it again near the end of the first hour. It took a bit longer for Hammer to catch on the second time, but he still did, raising a single eyebrow in Timmy’s direction. The question in the gaze didn’t need to be voiced for Timmy to hear it clearly. _Really?_

It took nearly two hours to finish the section, by which point the water bottle was long since empty and Timmy’s voice had developed a rasp worthy of a jazz singer.

“Should I keep going?”

“No.” Hammer tipped forward in his chair, spinning to face Timmy head on, hands folded atop the desk. “What did you think?”

Timmy shrugged. “Sucks to live in a cave.”

“Does it?”

Timmy was tempted to look over his shoulder, as if someone might be behind him to clear up whether Hammer was fucking serious. “They’re chained up in a dark cave, and they can’t even look around.”

Hammer sat back again, crossing his ankle over his knee. “But they don’t know any different. They can’t conceive of anything better.”

Timmy scoffed, almost amused at the absurdity of this conversation.

“We’ve got it pretty good here, don’t you think? Not perfect, but not much room to complain, either. I mean, the food is better here than at grad school, for one.”

“I guess.”

“But what would someone looking back from a thousand years in the future think of our ‘comfortable life?’”

Timmy got the point, but he didn’t really want to concede it, so he shrugged.

Which somehow made Hammer grin. Weirdo. “Not convinced? Let’s take it back instead. Do you think medieval serfs stood in their fields wishing for the easy access to information we have today?”

“But wasn’t Oxford founded like a thousand years ago?”

“That’s true.” He still had that glint in his eye. “Why do you bring it up?”

“People must have wanted access to information for a whole university to spring up.”

“You make a fair point, one which Plato would like. There are always people who seek enlightenment, but most people are just trying to get through the day.” He sat back, his chair rocking as he steepled his fingers in front of his face. “Do you know how the university system got started?”

Timmy shook his head. “No.”

“People would basically gather around the house of a scholar and demand he talk to them.”

Timmy couldn’t help but picture villagers outside a home with torches and pitchforks. He laughed, mock shouting, “Education or death!”

Hammer chuckled in return. “So yes, those people were pretty desperate to escape the cave, and they did it through education.”

“Oh.” Timmy wagged a finger at Hammer. “I see what’s happening here. You’re trying to trick me into caring about school.”

Hammer mock shouted his frustration, clenching his fists in the air like he was about to do a Hulk smash. “We were doing so well.”

“So, you just want to sit in silence for the next”—Timmy glanced at the clock on the wall—“forty-five minutes. I got Words With Friends on my phone if you wanna play.”

“Nope.” Hammer swiveled forward, his forearms thumping the surface of his desk. “Let’s talk about The Matrix.”

 _What the…_ “The movie?”

“Yep. What do you think? Do we live in the matrix?”

Timmy scoffed. “No.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s a movie. Ya know. Fiction? Didn’t they teach the difference between fiction and reality at your elementary school?”

Hammer grinned. _What the fuck?_ “How do we experience the world?”

“Um.” This felt like a trick question. “Our senses?”

“And what are our senses?”

“Sight, sm—“

Hammer held up a hand. “I’m not looking for a list. Fundamentally, what are our senses?”

Timmy thought about it for a moment. He shrugged. “Nerves?”

Hammer snapped and pointed. “Electrical signals.”

Where was he going with this? “Ok.”

“Say you picked up this pen.” Hammer did so. “And somebody mapped out all the neurons that fired off in your brain and managed to send you all the same signals. It would be indistinguishable from the real thing.”

Huh. He’d never thought of it like that. “Are you trying to give me an existential crisis?”

“No. I just want you to think critically.”

Timmy let his head fall onto Hammer’s desk, groaning. “It’s Saturday. Stop trying to teach.”

Hammer tapped him on the crown. “It’s detention. I’ll do what I want.”

Timmy sat up just enough to glare at Hammer.

“So, do we live in the Matrix?”

Timmy rolled his eyes. “Fuck if I know.”

This time Hammer tapped the middle of his forehead. “Do better.”

Timmy propped his chin on his hands and stared.

Hammer stared back. “The time’ll go faster if you engage.”

Timmy had the overwhelming urge to stick out his tongue, but he fought it, opting to lay his forehead on his hands instead.

Something that wasn’t Hammer’s finger tapped the back of Timmy’s head in a rapid tempo. “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.”

Timmy tried to blindly snatch whatever was tapping him, to no avail. He sighed, looking up again.

Hammer stared, his face impassive, his eyes sparkling.

Timmy huffed. “If reality is indistinguishable from electrical impulses in our brains, how can we possibly know for sure what’s real?”

Hammer smiled. “According to Plato, the world we experience isn’t reality.”

“Whoa. Far out,” Timmy intoned.

Hammer ignored Timmy’s sarcasm. “So, what are our experiences? According to Plato.”

Timmy sighed, staring to the ceiling like there might be a way out up there. He held the book up to his forehead, pretending to divine the contents. “The shadows on the walls.”

“And reality?”

“The world outside.”

“Well, would you look at that. You get it.”

Of course he got it. He got it before they started, but this just showed how fucking useless philosophy was. “But it’s not like we can step outside ourselves to see the ‘real’ reality, so what’s the point?”

Hammer grinned. Again. “You tell me.”

“Do you get off on this or something?”

“A philosophy teacher likes to talk philosophy. Shocking, I know.”

Timmy rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t quite hold back a chuckle.

Hammer stared.

Timmy cringed. “Fine. Uncle. I give. What’s the point?”

“Would you concede that we’re both sitting on chairs?”

“You’re a real believer in the Socratic method, aren’t you?”

Hammer rocked in his desk chair, totally unperturbed. “Are we both in chairs?”

Timmy threw up his hands. “Of course we’re both in chairs. Did you smoke some ayahuasca this morning or something?”

Hammer looked surprised. “But they’re so different. Yours is wood; mine is metal. Yours has four legs; mine has a central post and six wheels. Mine has upholstery and arms. They’re different sizes. They’re different shapes.”

Timmy pressed the heel of his hand to one eye. “So?” He thrust out both hands. “No no no. Let me guess. I tell you.”

Hammer nodded, slow, emphatic.

“So…” Timmy puffed a breath through his cheeks. _Saturdays aren’t supposed to be for thinking._ “You’re saying there’s, like, an idea of a chair that I have in my head, and I judge all other chairs against it.”

Hammer pointed one finger at his nose and the other at Timmy. “What’s fascinating is that this idea is supported by language acquisition. A kid sees an animal, and his mom says it’s a dog, so the kid thinks--and this is unconscious, mind--oh, four legs and fur. That’s a dog. So, the next time he sees a furry animal, he calls it a dog, but his mom says, no, that’s a cat, so his idea of a dog shifts, and eventually there’s some unarticulated ideal of a dog in this kid’s head that enables him to identify all dogs despite the vast differences between them.”

That was actually kind of interesting. “Huh.”

“I bet you even had an archetypal idea in your head of how today would go, even if you didn’t realize it.”

Timmy shrugged.

“So”--he crossed his arms over his chest, thrusting his chin forward--”how’s it measure up?”

“You looking for a performance review?”

“Just curious.”

“Um…” Timmy bit his top lip, running his tongue back and forth along the inside as he thought. “It’s different.”

“Expecting to knock the chalk out of blackboard erasers?”

Timmy cocked his head, eyeing Hammer incredulously. “You’re not that old, are you?”

Hammer shrugged. “They still had them in college.”

“How old are you, anyway?”

“How old do you think.”

“Thirty?”

Hammer guffawed. “Gee, thanks. I’m twenty-five.”

So it _was_ his first teaching job. That explained the enthusiasm.

“Well”--Hammer clapped his hands together before rubbing them against each other--”looks like that’s time. I’d say I hope not to see you next Saturday, but you owe me ten minutes.”

Timmy checked the clock on his phone. “It’s twelve-o-five. I owe you five.”

Hammer wiggled his mouse as he looked to the computer screen. “Twelve-o-four. You owe me six.”

“Fine.” Timmy turned to leave.

“Hey, Tim,” Hammer called.

Timmy paused. “Yeah?”

“Look, I know you’ve got everyone believing you don’t care about school, but I want you to know, I’m not fooled.”

Timmy rolled his eyes. Typical new teacher, thinking he has all the insight.

“No, listen.” Hammer pressed his index finger to his desk. “I did have an ulterior motive here today, but it’s not what you thought. The conversation we just had”--he gestured between them--”showed me that while you might hate this school, you’re interested in learning.”

 _Whatever._ Timmy checked his phone. “Twelve-o-six. I owe you four.”

And he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and many thanks to May_Shepard for the beta!


	3. Chapter 3

Breakfast was about to close by the time Timmy stumbled down, still in his pajamas with sleep still in his eyes and his breath still ripe. He yawned wide as he grabbed a tray and blearily requested scrambled eggs and bacon from the line. He’d stayed up late playing video games with Calder to make up for the three fucking hours of philosophy Saturday morning, but he had to admit he was regretting it a little bit.

Especially when Hammer sidled up to him, all smiles in running shorts and a t-shirt drenched with sweat, bluetooth earbuds hanging loose around his neck. “Morning, Tim. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I see.”

Timmy grumbled as he took his plate from the lunch lady.

“Just eggs for me. Thanks.” Armie flashed the lunch lady a thousand-watt smile, and she visibly blushed.

Douche.

Timmy walked away to the drinks station, dispensing chocolate milk into a too-small glass. It was either that or one of the nasty from-concentrate juices. Much to his dismay, they removed the nozzles from the sodas for breakfast, and they didn’t serve coffee at all, which explained why most of the teachers didn’t have breakfast in the dining hall.

Hammer showed up beside him again, picking two slices of whole grain bread from a bag and popping them into the toaster. He picked up a single-serve container of almond butter and spun it in the air.

Timmy put down his glass, causing the other dishes on his tray to clatter. “What are you doing here?”

Hammer set down his almond butter and turned to Timmy, one hand propped on the counter, one ankle crossed over the other. His brows lifted. “Pardon me?”

“Teachers don’t eat breakfast here.”

“It’s part of the benefits.” His toast popped up, and he moved it to his plate. “It’s not my fault if people don’t take advantage of it.”

Timmy rolled his eyes and left. Hammer wanted to infringe on his weekend? Fine. Let him have his stupid breakfast with his stupid running shorts and his stupid sweaty shirt.

Timmy sat down at an empty table and dug in. It wasn’t that he had no one to sit with. It was just nearing the end of breakfast. All his friends had either already eaten or weren’t going to.

He sat facing one of the myriad windows, watching the rain cascade over the glass, distant thunder rumbling, making him sleepy. The lights in the high ceilings did little to light up the place. They only worked enough to reflect in the windows, casting spotlights down on the tables.

Which meant that despite facing away from him, despite the fact that all Timmy wanted to do was watch the rain and eat until he could go back to sleep (or at least go back to bed), when he looked through the windows, his eyes focused on Hammer. It was like the worst magic eye poster ever.

Hammer was eating his almond-buttered toast in unreasonably sized bites as he looked at something on his phone. Something that seemed absolutely fascinating to him if his face journey was anything to go by.

Timmy tried to ignore him, but then, a brilliant idea. Hammer brought his phone to class, or at least Timmy had seen him check an incoming message once, and another time he’d used it to look something up. Why wouldn’t he? There weren’t any rules against _teachers_ bringing their phones to class.

“Whatcha reading?” he asked Hammer’s reflection.

Hammer startled, looked up, furrowed his brows. 

Timmy waited until Hammer was about to go back to his reading, and then spun in his chair. He hooked his elbow over the back. “That question was for you.”

“Oh. Nothing.” Hammer scratched behind his ear, shrugged. “Just an article.”

“Wow. Fascinating.” Timmy scoffed as Hammer ate more toast. “What is it about?”

“Um.” Hammer chuckled, wiping a dollop of almond butter from the corner of his mouth and licking it off his thumb before using said thumb to scroll. “It’s about this study on a possible treatment for depression in cancer patients.”

He stopped there. Set his phone down and gave Timmy a little closed-mouth smile before digging back into his breakfast.

This totally threw a wrench in Timmy’s plan, but even without that factor, really? He was just going to leave it at that? “And?”

Hammer huffed. He looked to the ceiling. “They gave the patients psilocybin, and many of them reported their hallucinations felt more real than their actual experiences. I was trying to decide if it would be appropriate to discuss in class.” He tilted the phone towards himself and blew out a breath through his cheeks. “Yeah. Probably not.”

Huh. That actually sounded interesting. “Will you send it to me?”

Hammer stared at his phone for a moment longer than was comfortable for Timmy. Finally, he extended his palm. “You understand I’m not endorsing the use of hallucinogens, right?”

Timmy rolled his eyes. “Geez, Hammer. Chill out. You think I care?”

A smile flickered over Hammer’s face before it went serious again. “Fine. The usual email? First initial, last name?”

Timmy stood, valiantly keeping himself from leaping from his chair. “I don’t get my email to my phone. Text it to me.”

Hammer paused with the share screen still lit. “Uh, no.”

“God.” Timmy swept the phone from Hammer’s hand. “What difference does it make?” He typed in his number and pressed send before handing it back. “There. Done.”

Hammer’s jaw clenched as Timmy’s phone pinged in his pocket.

Timmy pulled out the phone, opened the message, and clicked the link. Once the article loaded, he turned the screen towards Hammer. “Was that so bad?”

Hammer sat back in his chair, legs wide, arms crossed. The look on his face was clearly a chastisement, and much to Timmy’s chagrin, he felt heat on the apples of his cheeks before he spun and flopped back into his chair, focus squarely on the screen of his phone, though not a single word registered.

***

He was feeling more himself by class time on Monday, in his usual seat with his usual sprawl and his phone in the usual pocket of his uniform. 

He let Hammer get about ten minutes into his lecture, which he thought was downright generous, before hitting send on the first text message, which said simply _1_.

The phone didn’t make an audible ping, but Timmy could see the momentary micro-expression when it vibrated in Hammer’s pocket. He didn’t check it at first, and Timmy realized that he probably saw this coming. That was okay, though. Just because he knew it might happen didn’t make it any less annoying.

So, he waited a few minutes and sent the next one. _2_.

Hammer’s flinch was a little bigger this time, and Timmy couldn’t help but smile, hiding it behind his hand in case anyone was looking. No one was. No one else was onto this little game they were playing. They were all participating in Hammer’s hard-on for the Socratic method, or at least listening diligently, too concerned with getting grades good enough to get into their parents’ alma maters to have any fun.

Timmy sent the third text.

Hammer paused for a moment to peer at his phone without taking it fully out of his pocket. He nodded, lips pressed together into a frown.

He made a come-hither motion towards Timmy. “Bring it up here.”

Timmy looked around like he didn’t know who Hammer was talking to as a murmur rumbled through the classroom.

“Don’t play, Tim. The phone. Now.”

Timmy huffed, making a show of sliding out of his seat, walking to the front, and placing his phone carefully on Hammer’s palm. He gave a little bow before spinning to return to his seat.

He heard his phone clunk to the surface of the desk as Hammer spoke. “James, go sit in Tim’s seat.”

James balked. “But sir--”

James grumbled as he gathered his things and walked to the back of the room, shouldering Timmy on the way.

Timmy playacted at confusion. “Where am I supposed to sit?”

He could see the words _cut the crap_ written across Hammer’s forehead, but instead, Hammer warned, “Tim.”

Timmy slid into the chair just as James returned to the front of the room and threw Timmy’s things on the floor beside him. Timmy flashed him a grin. “Thanks.”

“Asshole,” James muttered as he returned to his seat.

“Now.” Hammer stood from his perch at the desk and rubbed his hands together. “If there are no more interruptions”--he slipped his hands into his pockets and raised a brow at Timmy--”back to the Allegory of the Cave.”

Dear God. Was that-- Did Timmy just see-- No. Dicks that big only happened in porn. It had to be something else.

He glanced to the students on either side, but neither of them seemed fazed. Of course, neither of them had a front row, center view of Hammer’s pants pulling tight against his groin when he stuck his hands in his pockets.

It wasn’t that Timmy had any plans to pay attention in class today, but that was damn distracting. Distracting enough that he actually made an attempt to listen to what Hammer was saying, his classmates’ answers to Hammer’s questions, but it was just… there. All the time. At eye level.

Hammer might or might not have an anaconda in his trousers, and Timmy couldn’t completely stop himself from looking. Analyzing every wrinkle in the fabric for object permanence. And it was humiliating. He was fairly certain that none of the other students could tell what was going through his mind, but twice--twice!--Hammer strolled by Timmy’s desk and rapped on the top.

Fuck. Now Hammer was going to think he was a perv.

He dropped his head to his hands, pressing the heels against his eyes. Hammer still came around to rap on the desk a couple times, but Timmy ignored it.

Until Hammer flicked his forehead instead.

Timmy’s head shot up on an indignant huff, but Hammer had already moved on, listening to fucking James answer a question in the most pretentious voice possible. And it wasn’t even close to the right answer.

Hammer nodded as James summed himself up. “Well, if the Allegory of the Cave teaches us anything, it’s that our perceptions don’t define reality. So, if we can’t trust what we see and hear, what can get us close to understanding what’s real?”

The class was silent for too long, and Hammer wasn’t making any effort to fill it. This fucker and fucking Socrates.

With a huff, Timmy raised his hand, answering without waiting to be called on. “Archetypes.”

Hammer smiled, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes lit up. “Would you like to elaborate?”

 _I bet you even had an archetypal idea in your head of how today would go._ “No.”

Hammer went back to it, and thankfully, the bell rang soon after. Timmy had to lean over the wrong side of his desk to get his things back into his bag as the rest of the class filed out. He finally lifted it into his lap and went to stand, but Hammer clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Hold on a sec,” he said.

Oh God, Timmy was about to get lectured for staring at a teacher’s crotch.

Once the room was empty, Hammer let go of Timmy’s shoulder to grab Timmy’s phone. He held it out.

Before Hammer could get a word in, Timmy said, “That’s generous of you. Most teachers keep it until the end of the day.”

Timmy reached for it, but Hammer pulled it away. “I’m not giving it you. I’m going to watch you delete my number, and then I’ll be keeping it until the end of the day.”

Timmy had no problem with that. He’d already written the number on a slip of paper that was now sitting in his desk drawer in his dorm room in preparation for just such an occasion. Honestly, he was surprised that Hammer didn’t just block him, though maybe he didn’t know how.

No, he wasn’t _that_ old.

So, Timmy took the phone, scrolled to the contact labeled _Plato Prick_ (which apparently was more apropos than he anticipated), and deleted it.

As Hammer took the phone back, he chuckled. “Not the best moniker. I’m really more of a Socrates guy.”

Timmy slung his backpack over his shoulder as he stood. “Would you have preferred Socrates Shithead?”

“Aristotle Asshole.”

An unbidden laugh leapt from Timmy’s throat, and he coughed into his elbow to hide it. “See ya Saturday, Hammer.”

Hammer settled against the edge of the desk, flipping Timmy’s phone over and over in his hand. It looked tiny. “Yeah, probably.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks once again to May_Shepard for the beta. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://justacookieofacumberbatch.tumblr.com).


	4. Chapter 4

Timmy had harbored some hope that he wouldn’t be taunted by Hammer’s trouser snake for the rest of the week, but when Tuesday came around and Timmy tried to sit in his usual spot, Hammer snapped his fingers and pointed to the desk front and center. James even tried to trip him up, shoving his foot into the aisle as Timmy returned to the front. Because God forbid he’d have to scoot over to the seat next to him. One seat off center, oh no! However would he cope? _Brown noser_.

It didn’t help that Hammer had a habit of propping his ass on the edge of his own desk, right in front of the center of the whiteboard, directly in front of Timmy’s new desk.

“Am I sitting here all week?” Timmy asked as he slid into the seat.

“Try all semester.” Hammer sat at the edge of his desk, legs crossed in front of him, palms on the edge. The front of his pants wrinkled, the center of his zipper bulging out.

Timmy groaned at the ceiling. Times like this he wished he wasn’t at a boarding school. It wasn’t like being at a day school at home in Hartford would open up a world of possibilities of things to do instead of attend school, but at least he could go hang out on the Yale campus or go get something to eat. Skipping here meant traipsing through the woods or finding a good place to hide so he could read or play a game on his phone, which he could usually do in class anyway. Unless a teacher tried to put him at the front. Most of them knew it wasn’t worth the trouble.

So, why’d he have to get so distracted yesterday? He should have been making a ruckus instead of sitting quietly like some obedient little puppy. He should have been making Hammer regret the decision before Timmy’s ass even hit the seat. He’d set the wrong precedent, and now he had a lot to make up for.

So, every time James spoke, Timmy made noises like a car alarm. Which eventually made James kick him. Which made Timmy tattle like a third-grader. Which made Hammer pinch the bridge of his nose and heave a mighty sigh.

Timmy sat back with a smug grin. Getting kicked out of class in the second week wasn’t his best record, but it wasn’t terrible.

“James, find another seat,” Hammer said.

Timmy’s and James’s jaws both dropped.

“He started it,” James whined.

Timmy scoffed. “Wow, James. Real mature.”

James punched him in the arm.

Timmy grabbed the punched spot with an indignant huff. “Are you going to allow this sort of behavior, Hammer?”

“Enough.” Hammer slapped a hand down on each desk and leaned down, his voice quiet enough that Timmy had to lean in. “If you don’t stop right this second, both of you are going to the principal, and both of you are spending your Saturday in my office.”

Timmy felt the blood drain from his face. Four hours in that tiny office with fucking James? He’d rather jump off the science building.

Timmy grabbed his backpack. “I’ll just go sit in the back.”

Hammer pushed down on his shoulder. “You stay there.” He looked to James. “Your move.”

James glared at Tim, and Tim stared back with the most neutral expression he could muster, though he was so thrilled to see a teacher’s ire aimed at James instead of him for once. Plus, it guaranteed that Timmy would not have to spend his Saturday with this suck up. Ture, if the game of chicken being played were between Timmy and James, James might not flinch, but this game was between him and Hammer. And James was nothing if not a kiss ass, so he swept his backpack off the floor and moved to the closest empty seat. Hammer let go of Timmy’s shoulder, and as Hammer walked back to perch himself on the desk, Timmy rolled the tension out of it.

Hammer didn’t call on James for the rest of the class period. Timmy chalked it up as a victory.

***

Timmy got to class early on Wednesday, before Hammer, and sat at the back. Hammer hadn’t called roll since the second day, so Timmy had some hope that his move could go unnoticed, but those hopes were dashed when Hammer snapped and pointed to his seat about three seconds after entering the classroom.

Thursday, he tried to hunch over his phone and read, but Hammer swept it off his desk and slipped it into his own pocket.

“And he didn’t even have the decency to be there when I went to pick it up this afternoon.”

“So you mentioned.” Calder handed Timmy a tray and then grabbed one for himself.

“Well, it’s annoying.” _How Hammer keeps preventing me from distracting myself from Schrodinger’s monster dong._

“So you’ll watch YouTube on your laptop instead of your phone tonight.”

“Wow. Thanks for reducing my life to YouTube.”

Calder shrugged. “Okay. What else, then? Porn? _Call of Duty_?”

“Fuck off.”

Calder laughed as he joined the line for the hot bar.

“What if he keeps it from me tomorrow, too?” Timmy slid into line behind Calder.

“Then get it from him on Saturday.”

“Excuse you. I don’t have Saturday detention.”

“You’re slipping, Chalamet.”

“Fuck off.” Truth was, he was actually doing his level best to stay out of Saturday detention. If Hammer wouldn’t let Timmy forget about the presence of his crotch during class, at least Timmy could get away from him on the weekend.

“What’s the hold up?” Calder asked.

Timmy shrugged before pushing up on his toes to peer over the heads of his classmates, and there the Brobdingnagian was, laughing, his hand on the edge of a plate of food moving no closer to his tray.

“For God’s sake,” Timmy muttered.

“What?” Calder asked.

“Hammer!” Timmy shouted. “Try to fuck the lunch lady on your own time. People are trying to eat!”

Hammer’s face dropped, but he grabbed his plate and walked away.

Timmy dropped back down on his heels to see Calder staring. “What?”

“What the fuck, man?”

Timmy scoffed. “You’re welc—“

Hammer yanked Timmy out of line. “Go apologize to Sheila—“

“Who the fuck is—“

“She’s the lunch lady. And you’re literally biting the hand that feeds you. Go apologize.”

Timmy clenched his jaw.

“I will drag you by the ear.”

Timmy didn’t move. Sure, that would be embarrassing for him, but he had a feeling it would be worse for Hammer.

Hammer grabbed his ear.

Timmy squirmed away, his hands shaking. “Jesus, fine. I’ll apologize.”

“Good.” Hammer turned to go, and Timmy went to rejoin the line. But Hammer continued, “Now.”

“Seriously? Why can’t I just do it when I get my food?”

Hammer squeezed in a little closer, lowered his voice. Why did he always do this when he was getting all disciplinarian? “Look at your surroundings, Tim. Think about who’s in the wrong here. Do you really expect me to back down?”

Timmy rolled his eyes, but he went to the front of the line. He was too hungry to deal with this shit. So, he apologized, glanced to Hammer for approval, and spun on his heel to return to his tray.

“Oh, and Tim.” He rapped a knuckle against Timmy’s shoulder. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

He strode away, and Timmy turned into a marionette as he groaned his way back to his spot in line.

Calder laughed. “Why don’t you whip ‘em out and measure ‘em? It’d be quicker.”

Timmy’s face had to be purple at this point. He could feel the flush from his ears to his sternum. He slammed his tray against the counter. “Fuck!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience on this one, guys (and Don Armie *shifty eyes*). I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> As always, many thanks to May_Shepard for the beta!


	5. Chapter 5

Timmy showed up on time for Saturday detention. He didn’t feel like owing Hammer one more second than necessary, but that was apparently too early because his office door was closed.

Timmy scoffed. Calder. What an idiot. He’d teased Timmy relentlessly over the past two days, convinced that Timmy was somehow Hammer’s pet. As if Calder had any idea. He wasn’t even taking philosophy. And he was obviously wrong if Hammer couldn’t even be bothered to remember they were supposed to have detention.

Clearly Timmy had been usurped by Sheila in Hammer’s mind. Timmy wondered if they’d slept together yet. Probably. That was probably why Hammer was late, if he was even coming at all.

Timmy waited for about thirty seconds before turning to leave.

The door opened. “I thought I heard something.”

Timmy spun back around, plastering a closed-mouth smile on his face. Hammer was wearing running shorts today with a Northeastern hoodie. He looked comfortable, at ease, a little sleepy. Definitely got laid last night.

Jerk.

“Come on in.” Hammer stepped aside to let Timmy in, but instead of letting the door fall closed behind him, he grabbed a doorstop off the floor, propping the door open with his butt, and wedged it underneath.

“What’s that for?”

“To keep the door open.” Hammer squeezed behind his desk and tossed Timmy the same copy of _The Republic_ he read last week. He yawned.

“Wow. Aren’t you just full of interesting information.”

Hammer sat in his desk chair, stretched his arms above his head with a groan, and tugged his sweatshirt back into place. “I was informed that being alone with a student with the door closed is a no-no.”

“Uh oh.” Timmy pouted. “Did someone get in twouble?”

“No. Start with Book One, please.”

Timmy tossed the book to the desk and propped his feet on the edge instead. “Really, man. Rookie mistake.”

“You really…” Hammer huffed a sigh, scrubbing his palm down his face. “You could have said something.”

“It’s better if you figure it out yourself, isn’t it? We’re here to learn how to learn, after all.” Timmy nodded sagely. He was parroting something Hammer had said when a student asked why he didn’t just lecture. _This class is useless if I don’t teach you how to think_.

“Well--” Hammer propped his elbow on the desk, his face on his hand as the free one wiggled the mouse, and he absently looked to his computer screen. He glanced at Timmy as if he hoped Timmy wouldn’t notice. ”If it made you uncomf--”

Timmy scoffed. “I don’t give a shit.”

Hammer’s hand froze. He blinked at the screen a few times like Timmy’s straightforward words were somehow difficult to parse. “Okay. Start reading.”

“Late night?”

Hammer hummed as he grabbed the book back off the desk and tossed it onto Timmy’s lap.

Timmy licked the inside of his bottom lip, tapping the book against his thigh as he watched Hammer’s idle gaze return to the computer screen. Annoyance prickled like an invisible splinter. Hammer huffed a quiet laugh at the computer from behind his palm.

“She any good?”

Hammer’s brow furrowed, and then his full focus was finally back on Timmy. “Excuse me?”

Timmy cocked his head like a guard dog trying to determine the direction of a sound. “I think you heard me.”

“Trying to earn detention in detention now?”

Timmy pushed his feet against the desk to rock his chair. “You don’t have to answer.”

Hammer shoved Timmy’s feet off the desk. “You’re right. Start reading.”

Timmy leaned forward to prop both elbows against the desk, his mood soaring at Hammer’s obvious discomfort. “Yeah. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“I am not in the mood for th--”

“‘Cause you were in the mood last night.”

Hammer slammed his palm to the desk. “Dammit, Tim! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Timmy gasped.

“Yes, I said fuck. Move past it.”

Timmy put the book on the desk and started flipping through to find the beginning of book one.

“No.” Hammer snatched the book away. “Answer the question.”

Timmy’s heart flip-flopped in his chest. He couldn’t sit still. “I’m just giving you shit, Hammer. I thought you could handle it.”

“That’s not the point, Tim. We’re not buddies. This isn’t the locker room. My love life is none of your business, and you are not dragging Sheila or anybody else into this. You’re reading the book. End of story.”

“Then why’d you take it away?”

“Jesus Christ.” Hammer flung the book at Timmy, making it flutter in the air like a drunken bird.

Timmy let it land on his lap and tumble to the floor. “If it’s nobody’s business, maybe you shouldn’t hit on women in front of the whole student body.”

“I wasn’t—“ Hammer shouted and then blew a noisy breath through his cheeks, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re giving me a headache.”

Timmy put his hand to his heart, mocking, “That’s all I ever wanted in life.”

A tiny chuckle escaped Hammer’s mouth before his face steeled in frustration. “The lunch ladies are my friends. They are the kindest people in this school, but I have not and will never be flirting with them.”

“Yeah, ri—“

“Because I’m gay.” Hammer’s hand dropped to the desk in a punctuation mark, though Timmy wasn’t sure which one. “Does that end the discussion?”

Timmy’s heart tried to claw out of his chest like the thing from _Alien_. “Are you really?”

“You think I’d lie about that?”

Timmy tucked his hands under his arms to keep them from shaking. “I guess not.”

“What is this?” Hammer gestured to his armpits. “Are you clamming up on me now?”

Timmy propped his heel on the edge of his chair, tucking his knee to his chest. “No.”

Though, was he? He could understand Hammer’s perception of his body language, and he couldn’t seem to stop tucking in on himself. And he couldn’t seem to form words. But it just didn’t make sense. 

He wasn’t homophobic. His parents’ best friends were a gay couple. He’d been to parties at their house at least twice a year as long as he could remember. Even made out with a male college student at one of them last summer. Of course, that was mostly to piss off his parents—not that it worked—but still.

Why was his heart racing? Why were his hands shaking? Why was his mouth dry? Why did his face feel like it was covered in pins and needles?

So, he did what any sane seventeen-year-old person would do. He avoided the subject. He leaned down, picked up the book, and flipped to the proper section.

He unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth. His fingers tingled. “Book One, right?”

Hammer crossed his arms over his chest, and Timmy was sure a lecture was coming, but he just said, “Right.”

Timmy read. He didn’t try to interject lyrics or pretend it was too difficult or return to the topic of Hammer’s love life. He just read.

The words flowed smoothly off his tongue, but if it weren’t for having read it before, he wouldn’t have understood a word. Hammer’s presence prickled over Timmy’s scalp and neck. Even his breath was a palpable force, as if each inhalation stole the oxygen from the room and Timmy could only breathe on the exhale. For the entire span of the reading, he could feel his own pulse in his throat, and he was sure Hammer could hear it.

Poe would be so proud.

Finally, Timmy read the final word and closed the book. He swiped his sandpaper tongue across dry lips. 

And waited.

Hammer watched the book as Timmy smoothed down the cover and dropped his hands into his lap. He rubbed his eyes. “We’re done for the day.”

Timmy frowned. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

Hammer shook his head.

“There’s still an hour and a half left.” _Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Timothée_.

“I hereby commute your sentence.” He drew a cross in the air and flicked imaginary holy water at Timmy.

Timmy stood, his legs gelatinous. “Do you want to make it up next week?”

“No.”

Timmy turned to go, but he stopped. For some reason he couldn’t leave without saying something. “It’s not— I’m not— I don’t care that you’re g—“

Hammer huffed. “You make me tired.”

“I’m sorry.”

Hammer giggled. “No, you’re not.”

The one time a teacher calls his bluff, and he was sincere.

“Close the door on your way out.”

Timmy stepped out, kicked the doorstop back into the office. “Yes, Mister Hammer.”


	6. Chapter 6

When Monday rolled around and Timmy slumped into a seat in the back row, Hammer didn’t stop him. He knew he should feel relief that he was no longer the focus of Hammer’s impulse to fix what ain’t broken, but instead, he fidgeted. The antique wood under his ass felt hard as stone, and as Hammer started class, Timmy scoffed. Loud enough for Hammer to hear, though Hammer continued class like nothing had happened. Like fucking James wasn’t sitting in Timmy’s seat looking smug as shit.

Even though he was glad of the reprieve, he felt angry. Because it was cowardly of Hammer to ignore him. Because it was cowardly of Timmy to sit in the back. Because he hadn’t meant to clam up, but he did. Because his intrusive thoughts about Hammer’s dick had taken on a different shape. Now they featured hands and asses and mouths. They featured Hammer’s face contorted in pleasure while some nameless, faceless male did… things to him.

Because the thoughts kept him up at night. He tossed and turned, annoyed at the way his covers tangled around his feet, annoyed at light from the moon piercing through a crack in the blinds, annoyed at his roommate’s slow, even breathing, taunting Timmy with his peaceful rest.

Timmy sat with his ankle crossed over his knee, flicking at the cuff of his pants with one hand as the other tapped a pencil against the closed cover of his notebook. He wanted to crawl out of his skin. Just the sound of Hammer’s voice asking question after question made Timmy want to storm up and cover Hammer’s mouth with his palm.

He wanted to get thrown out of class just to get out of the next forty minutes, but anything that would get him thrown out would also earn him a Saturday in Hammer’s office. Forty minutes for three hours was not a fair trade.

“Tim.”

Timmy froze, though he didn’t look at Hammer, just kept his gaze in the middle distance, his posture slumped, allowing Hammer no other indication that Timmy had been paying attention.

Hammer wasn’t fooled, apparently. “If you’re not going to take notes, put the pencil down.”

Timmy closed his eyes as he took a deep breath. _Just get through class._ He flipped open the front flap of the notebook and scribbled _FINE_ in giant letters, turning the page to face Hammer before dropping it back to his desk.

Of course, he didn’t take notes. He doodled for a bit. Hammer offered definitions of justice from the reading, the one they didn’t discuss on Saturday. Timmy scribbled over the same spot until the paper ripped.

Hammer offered that a possible definition involved the powerful doing whatever they wanted to the powerless. “What do we think about that? Is that what society deems just?” 

Timmy wrote _Sure fucking feels like it_. Because here they were, a bunch of isolated teenagers put here because their parents said so, operating under the rules set by faculty and administration. Nearly eighteen years old and he couldn’t even decide when or what to eat. He couldn’t choose how to spend his weekends because students weren’t allowed to have cars. This place was suffocating and these jackasses had the audacity to punish him when he said he couldn’t breathe.

So he said so. Every word that he thought as he stared at his own scrawl in his notebook.

Hammer’s brows popped up, and he reared back a bit, though it was obvious he tried not to. “Does that sound just to you?”

“Fuck no.”

Hammer’s jaw clenched. He addressed the rest of the class. “You know, Plato was in similar circumstances at the time of this writing. His teacher, Socrates, had been jailed for practicing and teaching philosophy because it was seen as a threat to their system of government. A well-reasoned definition of justice is a threat to an unjust government.”

“So, we coup, right?”

Hammer held up a palm. “Let’s find a proper definition to judge against before we make any plans.”

Hammer went back to proposing definitions from the reading, and Timmy went back to his doodles until the bell rang for the end of class. Hammer dismissed them, and Timmy lingered at the rear of the pack, wondering if he should muster the courage to say something. He hooked his thumbs into the loops at the ends of the straps of his backpack to keep his hands occupied as his heart attempted to leapfrog out of his throat.

Hammer ignored him, and Timmy just shuffled out.

 _You fucking coward_.

***

It was Friday before Timmy finally approached Hammer after class. He’d exited near the rear of the pack all week, but that wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the tension in his chest that rose with each step towards the door and plummeted through the floorboards the moment he stepped through. Was this what guilt felt like? It got worse every day. Something had to give. 

So, picking at a spot at the corner of Hammer’s desk where the stain had worn off and the grooves of the grain had started to wear down, he waited until the class was empty.

He stared at his thumbnail scraping at the wood.

“Don’t you have a class to go to?” Hammer asked, leaning against the opposite side of the desk..

Timmy shrugged.

Hammer lifted a satchel to his desk chair and pulled out an accordion file full of dog-eared, stapled papers. He let it fall to his desk with a smack. “Go to class, Tim.”

“Can we talk about Saturday?”

“There’s nothing to discuss. You haven’t done anything to earn detention this weekend.” He looked worried.

“I meant”—Timmy jerked his head back and to the right—“last Saturday.”

Hammer curled his palm over the top of his desk chair, cleared his throat. “Go ahead.”

Timmy looked up at Hammer from his examination of the wood grain, squinting like he was staring at the sun. For possibly the first time since his first word came tripping from his mouth, he was speechless.

Another student waltzed in and sat at a seat in the center, pulling supplies from his backpack. Greyson, the ill-timed bastard.

Hammer glanced over to Greyson, glanced back.

“Good talk,” Hammer said with a slap to Timmy’s shoulder, fingers digging into Timmy’s trapezius as he headed for the whiteboard. He erased notes from Timmy’s class.

Timmy stepped up next to him, sleeve skimming the board, and muttered, “I don’t care that you’re gay.”

Hammer didn’t pause in his erasing, though his voice was low, definitely too quiet for Greyson to hear. Timmy barely could. “It doesn’t matter to me either way.”

“Well, I didn’t want you to think I was, like, offended or something.”

Hammer swiped the last bit of writing away and set the eraser on the marker tray. His eyes met Timmy’s and held them, and Timmy felt like the third person in the room was just the rudest. Not to mention that it was Greyson, who once started a rumor that Calder’s girlfriend was fake. It was true, but still. Every shuffle of feet or crinkle of paper grated on Timmy’s nerves. He wondered if Greyson was paying any attention to them.

Timmy glanced at Greyson and the spider web silk strung between himself and Hammer snapped. Greyson was doing homework.

Hammer pulled the thick stack of papers from his folder and flipped through as Timmy struggled to catch back up. “Greyson, come get your paper.”

Timmy watched Greyson get up from his chair, take the stapled stack from Hammer’s hand, and sit down.

“Consider yourself clarified.” Hammer nodded to someone entering. “Quint, paper.” He handed papers to a passing student before turning back to Timmy. “Get to class.”

God. He thought he’d feel better after that, not worse. “‘Kay.”

He tried to walk out against the flow of incoming students, never as aware of sharp shoulders (none moreso than his own) than in that moment. The world felt akilter. He felt on the back foot, like he couldn’t get his balance, and all these fucking guys were in too much of a fucking hurry to just get the fuck out of the way.

So, when he came face to face with a member of the lacrosse team, taking up the entire door frame, Timmy punched him in the nards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and many thanks once again to my beta, May_Shepard!


	7. Chapter 7

Timmy shouldered his way past Hammer to get into the office. Another fucking Saturday morning wasted. You’d think after making it to the end of class on Friday, he’d be home free, but no. That stupid fucking lacrosse cretin had to block the entire door with his giant body. Thinking he could just waltz in without regard for anyone else because he ran around a field with a butterfly net.

Timmy collapsed into his seat with a great harrumph. “I like the new lamps. It’s more…” He paused, searching for the right words to describe the warm light that replaced the harsh fluorescent of the overhead lights. “...homey.”

Hammer snapped his fingers. “Nope. Try that again.” He gestured for Timmy to get up. “Go back outside and try coming in like a human.”

Sneering, Timmy parroted Hammer’s words back to him.

“Tim.”

Timmy stared straight into Hammer’s face and propped his feet on the desk, one at a thumping time.

Hammer leaned against the doorknob, crossed his feet at the ankles, and gave Timmy a look.

Timmy stared back, determined not to flinch first, but it didn’t take long for Hammer’s look to weigh heavy on him, to make his stomach swoop, to make his fingers and toes restless, to heat his face.

“Ugh, fine,” he groaned with an exaggerated eye roll. He swung himself out of his chair and used the momentum to propel himself through the door, shouldering Hammer on the way.

Hammer scoffed behind him, and Timmy smirked at his little victory until he turned around and saw Hammer running the back of his thumbnail back and forth over his lower lip, a smile on his face.

A smile? A fucking smile? Did Hammer find his disobedience amusing?

Timmy thrust his chin forward. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” Hammer shook his head. “I just should have seen that coming.”

“You’ll figure it out eventually,” Timmy said, one side of his face scrunching up almost enough to call it a wink, and then he went for the door back inside the office.

Hammer blocked it.

Timmy stopped short. “The fuck is this?”

“Your door technique could use some work.”

“Are you kidding me right now?”

“Nope.” Hammer shook his head, hands braced on either side of the door frame. He looked like he was posing for a picture, especially with the warm light of the lamps in his office casting a halo around him. It was the kind of thing to make him look both imposing and inviting. If he’d been posing for a picture.

Timmy clasped his hands together to one side of his jaw, fluttering his eyelashes. “Oh, Mister Hammer, I would be ever so obliged if you would grant me entrance to your office.”

“This isn’t a joke, Tim. You punched a starting lacrosse player in the nuts. I had to talk the headmaster out of suspending you for a month.”

Timmy scoffed. “You talked him down to a Saturday detention?”

“I talked him down to six.”

“Six?”

Hammer shrugged. “I figured you’d be here anyway. It didn’t seem worth mentioning.”

Tim had to smile at that. It was like they were in cahoots against the headmaster, which was certainly a unique and fun position to be in. Seemed risky for a brand new teacher, though.

“You should have just let him suspend me.”

Hammer’s face fell. “Tim.”

Timmy scratched the back of his neck, his eyes cast past Hammer into the office. “What’s it matter?”

“You want to get a month behind in your senior year?”

“I mean”—Timmy shrugged—“I’d rather not have to go home, but it’s only, like, two, three weeks until I turn eighteen, anyway.”

Hammer’s brows crinkled. He was either worried or suspicious. Maybe both. Probably both, the sap. “What does turning eighteen have to do with anything?”

Timmy shrugged. He wished he hadn’t mentioned that, but there was nothing for it, now. “Nothing.”

Hammer eyed him askew. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Timmy shrugged again.

Hammer paused for quite a while, but then with an emphatic nod, he said, “All right. Ask to come in.”

Timmy let out a put-upon sigh. “May I please come in?”

Hammer considered. “A bit too sarcastic, but we should reward subsequently closer attempts.”

He stepped aside, and Timmy walked in and sat down. Hammer followed and side-stepped his way around the desk to his own chair.

“So,” Timmy said, grabbing a fidget spinner off Hammer’s desk between his middle finger and thumb, flicking it, and letting it spin. He wondered if another student left it there. “What are we reading today?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something first.”

Timmy dropped the spinner to the desk. It kept spinning for a bit. “We talked outside.”

“Well, I checked your disciplinary record and talked to some of your teachers. You’ve never been violent before.”

Timmy shrugged. Picked up the spinner. Watched his own finger push a tab up and down.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, and to be frank, the guidance counselor is a better option, but I’m here to listen.”

How was he supposed to talk about it when he didn’t even know why he did it? It just happened. It was just the spur of the moment. He didn’t walk to that door looking to punch somebody. He just wanted to get out of the room.

Timmy blew a breath through his cheeks. “Noted.”

Hammer spun his chair and grabbed a book off the shelf, but before handing it to Timmy, he paused. He riffled the pages. “I’m not saying it excuses the behavior, but I recognize that my own behavior towards you changed after last weekend, and it shouldn’t have.”

Timmy tucked the fidget spinner between his fingers under his arms. “It’s fine.”

“Did it have anything to do with your outburst?”

The answer pinged in his mind with startling clarity. _Yes._ “No.”

Hammer stared at him. _This guy and staring_. He stared at Timmy and tapped the book against his desk, gave it a quarter turn, tapped again. He stared at the book. Turned and tapped.

“What?” Timmy burst.

“Just”—he shrugged—“wondering.”

And then he just went back to it. _Tap tap tap_. Quarter turn. _Tap tap tap_.

What was this, _The_ fucking _Raven_? “Okay, so. I was just trying to get out of the classroom and suddenly it’s like a clowncar pulled up outside, and I was just frustrated, and then Blake comes along and just stands there, all tall and smug, like _Fuck you, I ain’t moving_ , and I snapped!” He poked the desk top, over and over again. “These fucking kids get all the attention just because they can throw a ball across a field, and they think they can just walk over everyone. And they can! They never see any consequences, and it’s bullshit.”

Hammer’s book froze mid-tap. His brow furrowed. His mouth pinched at the edges. And then he dropped the book to the table with a big inward breath. “Wait here a sec. The signal down here is crap.”

And then he was off, nearly straddling his desk in his attempt to hop past it, before pulling his phone from his pocket.

Timmy watched the empty doorway. “Ok.”

After a minute, he launched himself from the chair and peered out into the hallway. He could fuck off right now if he wanted to. What difference would it make? He wouldn’t even be through his original sentence before he was gone for good.

Then again, Hammer had taken a risk in plea bargaining on Timmy’s behalf. Timmy’s escape would look bad for him. Prove that he put his faith in the wrong person.

But still, what harm could it do to just meander towards the stairs?

Timmy was about halfway there by the time Hammer came jogging down them.

He stopped as his gaze shifted forward at the bottom of the stairs. His mouth gaped as his brows pulled together for a brief moment. “Tim.”

“Timothée,” Timmy corrected, clapping his hands in front, then behind.

“If you’re worried those shoes will get dirty, you should probably change.”

Timmy looked down at his sneakers. What did he care? “Why?”

“I think I have a way to work out some of that frustration.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks for reading, and many thanks once again to May_Shepard for the beta!


	8. Chapter 8

At first, Timmy thought they were going for a run. He’d seen Hammer in his running shorts and ear-buds enough to know that he loved it. Though, the jeans would have been a poor choice if that’s what he had planned. On both their parts. But then, why the concern about the shoes? Why had they been walking outside for a few minutes without breaking into a run?

And then, as they wandered into the woods on some vaguely defined path where Timmy had no hope of finding his way back? Well, he started to wonder if maybe he was supposed to work out his frustrations by digging his own grave.

It didn’t help when the next landmark they came to was a shed and Hammer went straight for a pair of axes propped by the door. Timmy’d thought he was in the understated British boarding school drama, not the horror movie. But here he was, about to get axe murdered.

Funny. Hammer didn’t seem like the serial killer type. “I’m not sure the axe fits you as a murder weapon.”

Hammer paused with one axe in each fist, held low at his sides. “What?”

“You know, Hammer killing with an axe.” He see-sawed his hand in the air. “Doesn’t quite work.”

Hammer huffed, half amusement, half frustration, and thrust the handle of one of the axes towards Timmy.

After a sneering moment, Timmy took it. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Follow me.”

Timmy did, though he still wasn’t quite sure a murder wasn’t in the offing.

But then, they came to a small clearing, which only existed because whatever left the big stump in the middle was no longer there.

“Ever busted a stump?” Hammer asked.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Well, when I was a freshman in high school, I went to a boarding school until my parents decided it wasn’t the environment for me, and there, when you got in trouble, they gave you an axe and a stump.” He gestured dramatically. “And you spent your detention hacking.”

Timmy scoffed. “I bet the cruel and unusual punishment had nothing to do with you leaving.”

Hammer shrugged. “Less than you’d think.” He balanced the axe in both hands as he inspected the part of the stump near him. “I was ripped sophomore year, though.”

And then he swung, burying the blade surprisingly deep into the wood before rocking it free and doing it again. Like he hadn’t just let on that he used to get in a lot of trouble. Like he didn’t know Timmy’s mind was reeling.

Hammer was a troublemaker. Timmy felt the corners of his eyelids crinkle. He ducked his head to keep Hammer from seeing, but he couldn’t help peering up through his eyelashes to watch Hammer hack away.

“What are you waiting for?” Hammer left the axe wedged in the edge of the stump to wipe a bit of sweat from his upper lip. “Start chopping.”

Timmy looked down at his hands. He’d never wielded an axe before. Unless you counted the tiny tomahawk he played with until someone informed his mother that it wasn’t politically correct. 

He tested the balance, trying to decide whether to ask for help or just fake it, when Hammer spoke.

“You ever used an axe before?”

Timmy considered lying, but his head was already shaking.

“No problem. I’ll show you.” He sidled up to Timmy. “Square up to the stump. And you wanna put your--” He held his left hand out flat before turning to Timmy. “Which hand is your dominate one?”

Timmy waved his right hand.

“Okay, left hand at the base, palm down, right hand near the head, palm up.”

 _Sounds like you’re telling me how to hold your monster dong_.

“It’s probably easiest if you start with the axe up over your head, and then slide your right hand,” he demonstrated, “down the handle as you bring it down. Are you listening?”

Timmy blinked up from where he had been apparently staring at Hammer’s crotch--again--but luckily, he could play it off as looking at Hammer’s hands. He nodded and demonstrated, at least partially succeeding.

“Okay, I guess you were.” He slapped a hand to Timmy’s shoulder. Squeezed. “Hop to it.”

Timmy ducked out of Hammer’s grip. He rolled his shoulders and squared up to the stump, hoping the heat on his face was only from the sun and the long walk.

“You okay?” Hammer asked, concern in his voice, though Timmy didn’t glance to confirm it.

“Fine.” Timmy hacked into a crooked bit of the bark, which caused a bit to splinter off and whiz through the air. It startled Timmy, but he endeavored to hide it. He just lifted the axe and brought it down again.

Hammer stood still for a long moment. Timmy could see him in the corner of his eye, hip and head cocked, fingers drumming on the base of the axe’s handle, but Timmy kept going. Slicing away the stump bit by tiny bit.

Eventually Hammer gave up and went to chopping, timing his strokes so they landed in between Timmy’s.

Eventually the nervous tension in Timmy’s shoulders relaxed into the ache of effort.

Eventually the rhythm of their strokes lulled Timmy into a sense that all was right with the world, that only the calm of the woods existed, that they were the only people on earth.

Eventually Timmy stopped to catch his breath, watched Hammer swing the axe, the sweat bead and run on his brow and biceps.

“Where’d you go to school after this”—he gestured to the stump—“place.”

Hammer paused long enough to say, “Public school.” And went right back to it.

“Make a lot of trouble there, too?”

Hammer grinned, though he didn’t pause this time. “Who said I made trouble?”

“Very funny.”

Hammer finally stopped , stretching his back while the axe was still wedged in the wood. “I didn’t make trouble in public school. Once I figured out certain things weren’t happening anymore.”

“What things?”

Hammer grabbed the axe, but he paused there, pulling his lips over his teeth, his gaze firmly on the head of the axe. With a breath, he pulled it free. “Having wide swaths of boys wanting to beat me up during the day and fuck me at night.”

Timmy had no response to that, and Hammer was already deep into the chopping, so Timmy got back to it.

They settled into a rhythm.

Their breaths synchronized with the early-fall breeze.

It was almost zen if he ignored the niggling of Hammer’s confession. If he didn’t wonder how many boys Hammer touched before catching wise. How many after. If the words _fuck me_ weren’t echoing in his head.

He’d never heard a teacher say fuck in front of him--at least not when they knew he was there--and here Hammer had said it three times in one week. Was there something wrong with Hammer?

Timmy shrugged it off and focused on the heft of the axe in his hand, the shockwaves travelling up his arms with each strike, the strain of his muscles.

Timmy’s arms burned. His shoulders burned. His quads. His calves. His ass.

His hands.

Timmy left the axe wedged in the wood and checked his palms. The skin at the base of his fingers was tinged an angry red and dotted with a few tiny white blisters. He hissed and shook his fingers.

“Doing all right over there?”

Timmy jumped. Wiped his hands on his jeans. “Fine.”

Hammer held up both hands and wiggled his fingers. “Got some chafing?”

He asked it like it was funny.

Timmy looked down, pressing his thumb to one of the blisters. “You’d think I’d have developed calluses from all the jerking off, but guess not.”

_What the fuck are you doing? That was not a teacher joke._

Hammer propped his axe against the stump, brushing off his own hands against his jeans as he crossed to Timmy’s side. “Can I see?”

Timmy held out both palms for inspection as the other interpretation for that sentence lit up his visual cortex. It made Hammer’s fingers on his palms feel unbearably intimate. It made his heart race. It made his ears ring. He had to struggle not to sway into Hammer’s gravity, which he had a lot of, being so fucking tall. Towering over Timmy. Making him feel small and precious as Hammer inspected his nominal injury. It reminded him of a time he’d scraped his knee in the driveway, and the maid had set him on the lid of the toilet and sprayed Bactine on it and given him a Band-Aid and a kiss on the forehead. He’d wanted to go home with her.

He wanted to fall forward into Hammer’s chest, rest his head there until hands enveloped his back. He wanted Hammer to kiss his hair and tell him everything was going to be okay.

It was fucking disturbing. He was too old for that kind of impulse. He hadn’t felt it for years, not since he cried at falling down. Not for nannies or maids. Not for his friends. Not even for one of the girls he’d kissed at summer houses or holiday parties. And now he wanted it from a teacher? What the fuck?

He pried his hands away before Hammer could feel them shake. “They’re fine.”

“All right.” Hammer squinted at his phone for an interminable moment. “Let’s call it a day.”

“Don’t baby me.”

Hammer winced, but then he shrugged and walked away. “Do what you want, but I’m heading back.”

Hammer grabbed both axes and walked off, which left Timmy with no choice but to hurry after him like an idiot.

_Jerk._

***

When they reached the shed and Hammer propped both axes against the door, he paused to wipe sweat from his brow with the hem of his t-shirt. Hammer still glistened with it, but Timmy was way past that point. He had some sweat still clinging to his t-shirt—and the ass area of his pants was an issue—but his bare skin felt dry and tight, like coming home after a day in the ocean.

Hammer was a picture of healthy exertion, and Timmy was a swamp-assed salt lick.

“Got any water?” Timmy asked.

“Not on me. Think you can make it back to the dining hall?”

Timmy shrugged. He could, but fuck, he was thirsty. And he wanted a shower.

“Well,” Hammer huffed. “I think the administration’ll kill me for letting you into my house, but they’ll kill me if you die of dehydration, too, so come on.”

Hammer spun and walked away, and Timmy followed. “I’ll stay on the stoop. I’d hate for you to get into any trouble.”

Hammer chuckled. “Sure.”

It didn’t take long to get to Hammer’s house, at one end of a row of faculty housing. Blacktop driveways forked off a gravel road, which Timmy assumed snaked off towards the school as well as towards the road to town. The gravel meandered, like they were trying to preserve the forest as they built the tiny neighborhood, a bit more than a dozen cottages squeezed between the trees.

It was cute. Quaint. So unlike the rest of the school that Timmy feared they’d somehow walked through a portal to an alternate dimension. Maybe the Timmy here wasn’t being slowly bored to death.

Hammer unlocked his front door, leaving it wide open behind him. Timmy waited just outside the doorway and watched Hammer cross to the kitchen and open the fridge. It was basically right next to the door, though Hammer had to walk around a countertop with a sink to get to it. There was a small dining area behind it, but the table was currently covered in boxes. And that answered some of the mystery of why Hammer ate every meal in the dining hall. It still didn’t make sense, though. Why would you eat every meal there if you had the option not to?

“What were you, raised in a barn?” Hammer asked.

Timmy sniffed the air, looked at the ratty furniture, half of which faced a television, half the fireplace. With the lights off and the bright sun outside, the air itself seemed dingy. It seemed like every inch of the place had been sullied with soot, except maybe the mysterious rooms lying beyond two closed doors at the opposite side of Timmy.

“I’m doing you a favor. How long was this place sitting empty before you got here?”

Hammer shrugged, tossing a bottle of water over the counter to Timmy. “From what I understand, my predecessor was living here.”

“That would explain the old-people smell.”

“Yeah.” Hammer continued his trek back to the door, scratching behind his ear with the same hand that held his water bottle. “The furniture does have an”--he mimed wafting, gazing at the couch facing the fireplace as he walked--”odor to it.”

Timmy didn’t know if Hammer expected him to get out of the way like a bird on the highway or if he just had poor peripheral vision, but Hammer stopped short at the threshold of his front door, mere inches from Timmy. And well, Timmy saw an opportunity. He stood his ground. Not puffing up his chest or making himself look bigger; he just stood, squinting up at Hammer because he’d been staring into a dim cottage for too long.

Hammer looked down at him, clear on his own comeuppance. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then he just shook his head. He sidestepped to the far side of the doorframe and stepped down onto the stoop, shutting the door behind him.

He checked the knob. “Ready to go?”

“Where?”

Hammer trotted down the stairs of the stoop. “Lunch.”

It just wasn’t fair that Hammer was a giant who could block an entire doorframe, when Timmy could barely fill a third. He spun on his heel, eyes dramatically lifted to the sky. “Fine.”

Hammer jogged down the hill to the gravel, checking for oncoming traffic as he eased into an even gait at the bottom. When there was a perfectly good car right there in the driveway and they’d already been walking all morning.

Oh well. It wasn’t as if Timmy knew the way back on his own. He didn’t have much of a choice but to follow Hammer.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and many thanks to May_Shepard for the beta!
> 
> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://justacookieofacumberbatch.tumblr.com).
> 
> Re: the archive warnings, as I expect there will be questions (there be spoilers ahead... sort of) --
> 
>  
> 
> Yes, Timmy is seventeen at the beginning of this fic, which is underage in some areas. However, I have chosen not to use the Underage tag because he turns eighteen before any hanky panky happens.


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